


With My Cold Blade

by abeyance



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Angst, Eventual Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, F/M, Gladiators, Guilt, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Jon Snow, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R Plus L Equals J, danys still in meereen, jon just got resurrected, just roll with the timeline, will add tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-12-30 07:17:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abeyance/pseuds/abeyance
Summary: Post resurrection, Jon sets out to return home to Winterfell, filled with shame after his Watch executions. But with a run-in with some captors, Jon finds himself on a long journey away from home...ending in Meereen's Fighting Pits, at the feet of no one other than Daenerys Targaryen. Between Jon's need to escape and Daenerys's want to free all slaves of any kind, they start to help each other in ways they do not even realize.





	1. Death March

**Author's Note:**

> if you didn't read the tags, please just work with me on the timeline haha. This is the moment after Jon gives up Lord Commander, and its as if Sansa did not come in time. Daenerys is in Meereen for as long as I say I guess. Also it's real cold.

It was miles beneath his feet of frozen ground, varying in colors from green to white to brown.

_ I’m no longer the Lord Commander _ .

He did not need anyone to tell him that it was a good decision. Jon knew it was. It was the only decision.

And now he was going to his only other choice, his only other decision that mattered at that point. Winterfell was his own, half-Stark or not. The North did not deserve who was on the throne. From what he heard, anyway. 

Davos was beside him, but they were mere ghosts walking the earth along their own separate haunting path. The left the horses at the gates in order for their blood to keep from freezing and veins turn to red twigs in their skins.

There was no conversation hanging between them, only clouded breaths and feet crunching the snow. Only mile upon mile, a few biscuits every several hours, and sleep if it came to them. But restful sleep came as easily as true warmth in this region, and so they walked.

His nose burned as any always started to in the cold after a day, but it hardly mattered. It should not have been working at all.

_ That _ . that was the thought. There wasn’t much to think about other than that he was able to think. He was able to walk, he was able to breathe. It was inhuman. Unnatural and disobeying to whatever god there was. 

The cold tightened his open wounds, which wasn’t much of a help with dissuading reminders of the event. 

It was half into their fourth day that their restless-selves weren’t enough to avoid sleep. They rested against a tree, shoulder to shoulder for warmth. It was like his resurrection took nothing but all of the warmth from the land. 

How similar it was, Jon realized, as he squeezed his eyes shut to loosen the frozen creases. How similar death was to this inevitable sleep. Only with less feeling.

 

* * *

 

“Maybe the bastard’s luck ‘d run itself dry.”

“If it hadn't yet, I sure as bloody Hell will take it from him gladly.”

“Not yet. I wanna see those eyes watch ‘emselves flutter away.” 

“Wake ‘em up then.”

The feeling of steel at his throat was the tell that it certainly was not a dream Jon was recollecting. 

With a sharp inhale, his cold muscles groaned as he snapped, grabbing the hilt and turning the wielder around into a chest lock. Cold burned his widened eyes and the space beside his captive’s head was fogged in Jon’s breath. His eyes snapped to the partner who held his face with a smirk. 

“Gonna kill him now too, eh? For what, this time,  _ Lord Commander? _ Interest in assassination?”

With a good look at the man, Jon easily recognized him from the Watch. Only joined a few weeks before. To his right was Davos, a red stain at his head that dripped into his closed eyes, hanging forward from the simple knot to the tree behind him.

His stare held a second too long. 

“Don’t you worry, Snow. Ol’ man’s just gonna get a headache.”

Jon let the man in front of him go, pushing him to his partner.

“What is this?” his voice rasped the first words in days. 

“Don’t know if it's proper to call it a mutiny anymore, or even assassination,” the man started, “Since that already happened. But there’s no red lady this time, so you’ll stay dead ‘n cold. All like those good men you hanged.”

“They  _ were _ good men. That killed their leader for protecting others. I had to do it.” Jon hoped they could hear the pain in his voice. His resurrection and the executions combined have transferred more pain than ever, both through his body and his thoughts. It was eating him back to his state of death.

Jon jumped to his feet, carefully eyeing the cliff less than ten measures from where he stood. He should have checked the depth before they slept. His mind was out of the sorts in a way he’s never known. It was making him question the executions altogether.  _ Was it solely of impulse? _

But there was no time to guilt himself any more than he already was. He needed to return home. 

“We kill you, Snow, and we take your friend here to announce the final Stark Boy’s death to all of Winterfell before ridin’ your body around like the other one.”

Jon went to unsheath Longclaw. One of the only things left from his past life that he had the desire to take into his next. One swing he gave them, and both easily evaded with a laugh.

“Best swordsman of the north!”

He let the tease fuel his adrenaline. The dagger that woke him reappeared at the one man’s side and the other gifted himself his own sword. Jon positioned himself in a defensive beginning stance and waited for their next move. 

It came after another challenging grin. They were parallel with him and the cliff. No one was in favor in that sense. 

He tried. He deflected their blades and may have left one of them bleeding, but the clang of iron against steel fell silent when he ultimately felt the sharp pressure on his chest, and then none at all.

The air stang more during the short plummet off the cliff. He couldn’t find the purchase of his legs to land, but somehow found himself safely rolling over his shoulder to lie on his back. Quickly, he realized how much of an advantage this fall was, and rolled to his stomach in an unnatural position. He wouldn’t be able to withstand both of them; acting dead would work in his favor for the long run.

“Did you kill ‘m?” Icy snow crunched.

“At least knocked him out good.”

Jon made sure his eyes were closed.

“Tie him up. Takin’ him with us; and if the bastard’s breathin’, we make sure everyone watches him stop.”

Closing his eyes felt good. His cheeks were numb to the point that the skin against the ground didn’t bother him. He tried to retain his wind quietly on the mens’ travel down the slope. And then he relaxed.

It was a series of rough grabbing hands and looking for moments he could take in one large breath at a time. The sound of his body being dragged across the snow made Jon want to clench his teeth. 

At the point he was regarding the hours of inactivity his body was situated in, the men throwing his body into a hard wagon of some sorts was barely felt. It was odd and almost felt grateful that the surface was anything but snow. He was met with minutes of silence, presumably the captors trekking back the mild distance between where they dropped him off and his camping grounds to fetch Davos. Jon treasured the minutes to breathe, to open his eyes and check his surroundings. 

He was kept in a closed cargo wagon, and by from what his ears searched for, the men were too stupid to find a lock for it. His eyes leveled with the dust lines left behind by the boxes the men removed when they most likely stole it. Jon noted that his feet and hands were tied separately; and due to the restrictions of his wear, his hands were kept in front of him. 

They had already taken his cloak off his back; the thin one the sympathetic men of the Watch made him take as he left. Although it didn't do nearly as much as his black cloak, it would have certainly been better to have it when the night came, or the cold simply started setting into the small space.

If they really wanted him dead before Winterfell, they would have been smart enough to remove all of his clothes. But they had already tied him up so it was unlikely they would do it now with no use of cut clothing. Between him and Davos, the men would have enough cloaks to travel with happily. 

There was a small chatter that followed up to the wagon rocks violently as they situated themselves in the front.   
  


* * *

 

 

Within an hour, Jon knew he was not going to make it to Winterfell. 

The horse they were using was already tired and desperately needed rest. It constantly stopped and he doubted they were smart enough to give it proper armor against the North’s cold.

And despite what he thought about the cloak’s thinness before, he couldn’t help but think it would help him in some way in the small, cold space he was in. At least keep his body heat enclosed around him. 

Jon was grateful for the choppy trail the wheels rode over that hid how much his body shook, desperate to heat itself with the vibrations. He had no doubt the amount he shuddered would shake to wagon itself if they stopped.

He knew to keep his eyes open. If he was to close them, in his state of exhaustion and temperature, it would be suicide.

And so he watched the sun go all the way down until it was nightfall. The cold may have grown, but he was too numb to really realize. He only half listened to the captors’ conversation, even when Davos woke up and threatened them until tired. He stopped when it all turned out to be nothing but confidence in hope.

He also directed his focus to untying his restraints. The feet were the most important; he gave an attack to them with kicks and then decided to work on the hands as he ran off. It was hard with his unfeeling, gloved fingers, but he got by and soon it was loose enough for him to remove easily when the time came. 

He counted numbers to keep himself awake until the wagon stopped during the hours of darkness. It wasn’t much of a switch in pace from the speed the horse had been going before.

Jon waited for them to come be stupid enough to open the door to the wagon, but they proved him wrong. And so then he waited for the dead of night, sitting in his cold, sore joints, flexing and clenching his fingers in aid to warm them for his headed escape.

 

* * *

 

 

He wished his time in the wagon was as much as a blur as his escape.

It consisted of balanced steps and fumbling, pinched fingers, the feeling of his numb feet on the ground for the first time in hours. The alarm in his veins as he searched for Davos and begged him to come with him.

“I’d only slow you down. They have no point in hurting me if my ropes are tight. Go,” he said.

Jon couldn’t argue anymore; couldn’t waste any more time he had to put some distance between the captors and himself. With a swift goodbye and direction to some furs, Jon was off.  
  


 

* * *

 

 

He had no choice but to walk until next nightfall. His last midday-break resulted in his murder-thirsty meeting, and Jon could not help but think he could have avoided it with only a few more hours of walking and they would have slept in the safety of darkness. 

But he made it; after almost three-quarters of the sun’s cycle walking, it was twilight and Jon picked a tree to lie under for a sleep not-so restful.

He slept through the night, waking with his bones more frozen and neck strained. With a bit of walking, he forgot how to care.

It was sunlight and darkness two times over before two things came directly to Jons attention:

He needed to find food.

And;

He had no idea where he was.

His need for food contradicted his need for location. It had been days at that point, and although Jon could keep his hydration up using the snow, it would be no use if he had no energy to walk.

And if he had no energy to walk, he would not be able to depict anything near to Winterfell. Or Eastwatch. 

He didn’t even see things he would have remembered from his hunting trails all those years ago. No tell tale of him being in the same North. 

Jon would have liked to think there was just one too many feet of snow and ice that’s layered the grounds since then. He would have to get somewhere eventually, and there was no food behind him. The best was to move forward. 

The air had gotten warmer, or the furs thicker, or his blood more resilient, but his body was not as affected as before. Walk for some hours, sleep until he woke up. That was the plan.

The decision of that plan proved as a correct one because within another day, his feet fell on dirt grounds. The patch of it wasn’t big; it ended before his eyes’ horizon. The dirt and mud were lined with prints of horses and their carriages, meaning Jon could not stay long, either. Although he saw many winter-greens,  _ food _ , they would surely run out quickly, and Jon would be stuck in the same position he was in seconds ago. Even supposing the greens were edible, and there may be a family of rabbits, they were not exactly nutritious nor filling. 

But still, he took no time to pick what he recalled looked safety comestible from his vague, long-ago knowledge from the small number of lessons Lady Catelyn allowed the Bastard of the Starks. He stuffed the first handful in his mouth without more of that thought.

He wasted no time in the moment he chewed the bitter earth, savoring any sort of flavors and thought of food he had. Jon’s eyes scanned the surrounding factors, looking for any sign of wildlife. The plants would only give him spurts of energy. Soon, he would need meat. Or bread. Or anything but near-frozen leaves.

In the near area, there was no sign of it. He knew using the one patch as an oasis was his best bet at that point of time, even if he was to be sought out. The sun reached this place. And until he got every scrap of an edible plant in the section, Jon would stay.

The ‘food’ wasn’t enough to ration through every other day or so; it barely would give him enough energy as he would have if he didn’t eat at all if he ate like that. It was to work best if he ate larger amounts when he felt tired.

And so he grabbed as many greens as his eyes were drawn to, not exactly caring whether or not they were poisonous. He would separate them later.

The sky dimmed as Jon scavenged the dirt land, his joints getting tighter as the air around him became frigid. Jon's nostrils burned from the constant stream of frozen breath going through it again and again. His face hurt to touch despite the defrosting temperature he spent some hours in.

When the morning came, Jon would have to keep going.

He spent most of the night waking to walk around, hoping to warm his body past the near-frostbite state he was heading to edge for all hours of the day.

At first sight of morning, Jon set off. The sun continued to be nothing but a lantern in the sky. His feet most certainly had blisters at this point, but they were just too numb to really affect him.

Jon had realized his change of pace, his unpointedness with what exactly his steps were doing or taking him. There was no sense of another dirt patch anywhere ahead, nor tracks. The air warmed as the day moved forward, but at the point Jon had found himself at, it did barely anything. The snow had turned to ice during the night; that only got to his head when his leg gave and Jon crashed into the hard ground. He used that as a sign to eat his handful of leaves for the day.

Walking distracted him from the taste of his food, as well as his feet having as much feeling as he had water. It aided in his suspicions, too, as to where the tracks went. More importantly, the people they belonged to.

It was oblivion Jon was stuck in. the sun dimmed within what felt like two hours of it initially rising. This time there were fewer trees around. He had to search for a secure spot sooner than other times. Less traveling, more backtracking

He found two trees close to each other to sleep by. Jon gave the ground by his thigh a pathetic punch with his gloved hand in an attempt to maybe break some ice to suck on. The wood around him was thin and rather full of ridges than useful trees and rocks. Jon stayed sitting straight for a few counted moments, listening carefully for any sound of another being or reason for him to keep walking before his eyelids weighed into an inevitable rest.

 

Jon woke with a much too familiar sound. A low grumble, hissing through sharp teeth, nimble claws against floored ice. Ghost must be at Winterfell by now; Jon sent him off early in Davos and his travels, not wanting to worry the animal in the conditions they’d probably face. But these animals were certainly not the companion he was missing dearly at the moment. 

They might as well smell his half-dead flesh. The best he was to do was stay completely still, as frozen as the ground under him. Jon tried to recall if he even saw the prints of the wolves; but it hardly mattered to shame himself in the predicament he found himself currently in. If Jon made it past this specific part of the night, that would be the only appropriate time to go about that. 

But at this moment, Jon had two options; 

Stay painstakingly still until the wolfs unidentified him as their prey. Or;

Attempt to bond with them enough for the animals to accept him and move along. 

Both options were risky. And both options could result in a violent death; an attack full of pain that would only cease at the right bite of an organ or release of blood.

The pack already knew of Jon’s presence. Wolves of the north, especially in regions as barren as Jon had found himself in, have since developed heightened, precise senses. They could hear the frostbitten, matten furs rub against itself. The labored breaths Jon’s body has adapted to not mind. The cold gave everything away. It caused soft material to become noisy and Jon’s body become restless.

A growl, venomous and sleek, broke any hope Jon had of the pact passing. The tree branches were coated in the same snow and ice that layered the ground; glass light, giving itself a look of moonlite lanterns. Another prognostic cruse; the reflections speckled Jons safe-place with small, crystalized light. Something not exactly needed nor near desirable.

Slowly, Jon removed his gloves.

_ If you show no fear, they feel no fear _ .

The wolves, eyes that have since stepped closer and focused in on him, retreated a step at the sound of his gloves dropping on the ground next to him. When they replaced the step, Jon took the moment to reach out a hand.

If he was able to control his nerves, it didn’t matter. The cold truly betrayed him; his hand was now purely exposed to the bite of the barren air. His extremity acted as a gateway for the temperature to spread through all of his veins. Everything combined caused Jon’s body to unintentionally convulse in need of warmth.

But the baring was essential in his chances between life and being mauled. Skin contact; the scent of his leather gloves were as good as the livestock the day the skin was taken from it. His own flesh, no matter how frozen and good-as-dead it be, was still warmer than a corpse. In the alphas eye, it meant he was more up to fight than dead that don't walk. 

That vaguely reminded Jon that if he lived through the night, the next morning he should check the horizon for a shadow of the Wall. It would explain the weather, being so close to True North.

But it was a thought under his foggy mind. He honed completely on the creature in front of him, stalking closer to the breathing prey Jon statured as. It's been weeks since he’s sent Ghost off, but Jon kept hope that the dire wolf’s scent stuck to his hand, that it was preserved under his glove. It was one of the few things riding for him; his bond with Ghost translating to this wolf now. The instinct of their avoidance with direwolves calling to it at the scent.

The alpha was inches from Jon’s fingers. Its eyes glowed gold, silver reflecting from the snow-covered ground. The light reflected it in ways the wolves packed behind it did not possess.

But as much as the beauty called to him, danger called as well. Canines found defense in eye contact. Jon avoided its gaze in that thought, keeping it at his own hand. The snout was now mere measures away. 

It was a mixture of its hot exhales and cold-affected snout. The wolf’s nose grazed the upside of Jon’s nail. A curious thing, it seemed it was. In Jon’s luck. They may have eaten more recently than Jon first assumed. 

He wasn’t exactly complaining.

Jon’s arm groaned from the outstretched position. It’s misuse and raising its show.

Even in nothing but the moonlight, Jon could see its breath linger in the air in front of it. The moisture from its nose left a freezing trail over Jon’s hand. It searched for it compatibility upon his skin. 

Jon didn’t dare avert his eyes, which may have concluded to catching the packs attention. Distraction brings vulnerability, and vulnerability was their instinct to pounce. But out of his peripheral, the hound’s hind legs pranced. 

Small breaths, Jon took. He did not dare take more. A sound or cloud of breath...the difference between whether or not he got out of this alive. Anything more than what he had been taking could divert the wolf’s attention. 

The wolf grazed over the side of his index finger to sniff into Jon’s palm. It was a warm sensation; he partially wanted to stay there forever. 

The feeling desperately called to Jon; so close to the position he would regularly find himself in with Ghost. And after days and days of no interaction, not even talking to himself, his instinct yearned for it. 

He wanted - desperately - to relax his fingers, rest over the wolf’s face, scratch the muzzle and sink his fingers into the fur. Warmth wasn't a part of his need; only touch...a sense of home. It was hard to hold back; a tease of nature to deflect his true loneliness.

It nuzzled itself into his handle,  _ killing _ Jon. He held back the tears that would freeze in his eyes’ sockets.

But before he could embellish in, the  canine’s throat rumbled in a vicious growl defense, baring its teeth and snapping at him. 

Jon pulled his hand away, eyes blanking. That moment was it. He was chosen by god to be resurrected, only to kill opinionated men and a boy, followed by a lonely march pulling a wagon full of guilt and shame to die in a pathetic encounter barely a fortnight forward.

But the wolf  _ skidded backward _ at his sudden movement, whimpering in something only found from a pup’s gullet.

Jon retreated his hand to his side the same way the world filled into its pack. Jon’s face, skin tight from the cold, fought against itself as his brows scrunch together of what was unfolding before him.the place the wolf’s nose was tingeing in the air, any moisture already starting to freeze. The outer side of his hand stung against the burn of the frozen ground. 

Jon watched as the wolf gave a final whining howl, leading the rest of the pack into the blanket of winter night woods. Stunned.

As much as encounters by wolves was not a common thing he came about, stories of them were. And none of them ended in how he did.

Maybe the wolves were tricking him, and they’d return when he thought they were surely gone.

Though, he had never heard of that happening, either. 

Jon went to place both hands on the ground to push himself more against the tree behind him but stopped with a silent hiss.

Pulling his ungloved hand away from the snow, it alarmed him to see a shadow left behind, staining the white blanket.

At second glance, Jon realized it was red.

A sharp exhale served as a curse. He turned his hand over, inspected whatever wound left behind from the bite too quick to acknowledge. 

Somewhat of a graze was left behind. Not as deep as one would fear, but then again, not wanted at all. Especially not from an animal.

He would have to clean it but had to wait until the morning sun softened the ice. The moon was low it the sky; he could not tell if it was rising or setting. He would have to watch it for an hour or so to decide.

Keeping it in the open air was an undecided factor, too. It was better to keep it in the open air, the cold and freshness were good for it, but he would be risking frostbite, especially at night. Applying snow to it was not something he would be able to do.

Before he could conclude exhaustion overtook his muscles. Jon slipped his glove on before he ran out of the will to do so and gave into the weight.

Like all others on his walk, Jon’s sleep was dreamless. He only recollected the echoing cut of a rope and memory of white fur when waking. His head pounded more than it had previous mornings and his hand pulsed to the same affect.

Jon’s spine ached as he sat forward, the furs that covered him giving no avail to comfort the last few nights. His toes did not feel as numb as usual, but he predicted he would rather no feeling in a few hours of his walk.

He alluded from his stalling and carefully pulled his glove off. What hid under was some of what expected.

The wound had raised since he passed from exhaustion, swelling and purely red. He could only see two distinct scratches in the night’s darkness but it was clear that a third made itself more prominent. 

Jon winced at the coloring; bloody with an infectious glean coating it. His surrounding skin had a tint of green to it; tinted with red stains from the blood that had crusted and frozen come morning.

With one last inspection, Jon pulled out his pitiful supply of leaves. They had started to wilt, even in the wet winter climate, and he stuffed the rest of the remaining stack into his dry mouth. The cold that set on the leaves gave them a minty taste; it would suffice for water until to snow softened.

Jon mazed his glove back on his hand, acknowledging the tingling his fingers were feeling. He would have to break ice within the hour if the sun didn’t do it first.

The glove felt closed, but Jon felt it would serve better to warm any blood that froze during the night than give it more cold air. He set off on his stiff muscles into the stiff air.

* * *

  
  


He may have just been fooling himself, but Jon’s energy did feel a bit more boosted. The horizon was nothing but blue and gray; no shadow of the Wall. the abundance of leaves left a thick, tacky taste in his mouth. The sun lit the white ground and blinded him with the reflection of brightness. Although it led him on an unsighted walk, the ice would start to melt. And the warmer weather told Jon he was going  _ somewhere _ . Somewhere warmer.

The sun was still low in the sky when a glint formed on the ice and Jon’s boots became more wet than normal. He drew Longclaw and poked the ice piles, searching for any softness.

The same time a big water drop fell from a tree above him Longclaw sank into crusted snow. Jon immediately dropped to his knees, not feeling the pain that usually came to the pressure. He ignored the spike of it as he ripped his glove off, searing against the bites, and scooped the snow without a thought. Only instinct.

Jon was actually grateful for the pique the water brought his torn flesh. It meant there was still hope to keep it. He applied layers of clumped snow to the angry lines, removing his glove halfway through realizing the snow was melting through it. His body’s heat made the snow melt; and as much as Jon ought to wash it out, he barely had the dignity to hours later. The flesh was more tender than the carves that scattered his chest; now most likely starting to close. He hadn’t opened his coat since he put it on at the beginning of their hike.

Ill to touch, Jon righted himself and took another scoop of snow. Not letting himself hesitate he flattened his palm onto the center of it, rubbing circles of the snow into the gaping wound. It hurt miserably, and Jon gritted his teeth, a grunt coming from the thick of his throat. The first sound he had made since leaving Davos. 

But Jon kept at it; he put his glove between his teeth to allow himself that barrier to bite on, and took handful and handful of white snow and turned it into red water. The bloody mixture ran over his hands, dripped onto him pants, staining it all. 

It wasn’t even that it was painful on top; the surface of his hands was numb beyond a hint of sensitivity. But deep, deep in… the ice settled deep in the cuts, the bottom of their expansions, close to the bones and spreading as such. Chilled blood flowed through his body, biting with such force it was more like licks of fire.

As if the cold couldn’t dig deep enough into his bones. 

Jon kept at it until the wounds looked fresh; reopened and bleeding again, but clean. And the blood meant it was flowing; so far, he’d get out of this with both hands.

For a significant amount of time, Jon stayed there, using nothing but snow and his good hand to attempt to stop the bleeding. For the first time in months, an uncomfortable heat spreading through Jon's arm and neck and torso because of the repeated action...the work was tiring him quicker than hours of walking or a sword fight.

But the air was warming, too; the pro of his body’s occurring state. However, it was also only morning. He wouldn’t mind sleeping the debility off until the following morning, but at the point of near-death Jon found himself at, he was curious to see how much longer he could survive. And sleeping in the broad daylight as well as a sudden change of warmer temperature could both result in heat shock and an encounter with a fellow scavenger. It would not help in the pull of Jon succeeding.

The bleeding continued. And with that Jon got hotter and sweatier under the layers of furs and cotton. He felt his scalp tightened in the contrast of the cold and warmth; and yes, he was grateful for anything but the freeze of the North, but its small distress was an irritant that he could not get away from, although wanted to desperately.

With both his hopelessness and change in body temperature combined, Jon pulled the folds of his out most layer open; taking the furs from their usual placement earned a groan from them. They had not been moved that way in weeks. They had frozen in both timely unused and the climate they had faced.

Jon got down to his last layer; nothing but his simple tunic. The sudden chill traveled his body and made it break out in chills and shakes. Along his skin, the frigidation of the air burned his scars that had not seen the light of day since he was gifted them. He didn’t check for their status on healing; Jon lacked the will to face more worries.

His body smelt pungent between the sweat and grim and lasting ointment his wounds were left coated with. They had all piled together during the weeks of his constant motion, under the layers that barely let him take the warmth he truly needed.

Jon blindly ripped a shred of the tunics fabric. It had a stench that would hopefully be held by the inside of his glove. 

Before letting too much of the air’s chill settle under his clothes, Jon fastened his layers back in place.

He turned to his still-bleeding hand - that he hoped was slowing down - and wrapped the fabric around the bottom of his hand to cover the base of his thumb where the bites rested, red and green and angry. There was enough to go around twice before knotting the end; the length and thickness was not ideal, but he'd rather have more wrap for later than waste it all now. 

As confident as he could muster in the wrapping, Jon replaced his glove before watching the blood seep through. 

He got up and started off, wearily checking his footprints to make sure he wasn't backtracking.

Overall Jon was feeling dazed. He walked and walked; ignoring the growing discomfort and hot flashes. The sun was hid by no clouds and let its light beat on Jons face, forcing him to squint. It wasn’t long until that gave him a piercing headache. Despite the light it brought, the sun remained a meer lantern far away in the sun; a trick of warmth. He at one point put his head across the shoulder of his cloak and found it as cool as ice; no hint of the sun producing rays of heat in any case. 

Which wasn’t good. That meant, along with the small increase in temperature, Jon’s hot flashes were all due to him. His own body. Nothing to do with the climate around him.

His body screamed for water, and Jon screamed at himself for not eating the snow when he washed out his hand. The sense of chewing may have tricked his mind into it being food for a while. 

He knelt where he stood and pressed his gloved finger to the ice. It didn't stick to it. Hopefully his tongue wouldn't either.

Jon licked the coat of melted ice before trying to push to his feet. It was much more work than he would have like it to be. His muscles burned and stars dancing his eyesight as he took a few steps more.

The simple action caught him at a loss of air. He stood for a minute, trying to right his balance as he closed his eyes and allowed a few breaths.

Jon started walking once again.

His footsteps weren’t so much of that anymore; they more entailed to the rocking of his weight, right to left. 

The distance he accomplished within the half hour he walked was not ideal. His body was catching up to his march. 

A number of times Jon found himself on his knees; the joints too much out of reality to sense the pain his weight should've brought him. Jon would take the time to give the ground in front of him a few licks, stand up, wait for the aching and labored breaths and stars to fade, and then start again. 

Repeat. And repeat.

He might as well had been sleeping while walking. Another Wight. Just as so.

But soon, Jon thought to see something. He’d never been in such drastic situations in the wood of the North before, and so he didn’t know if the stories of the Desert’s mind tricks applied to barren winter land; but Jon could’ve sworn to see green and brown when the sun was just past quarter-mid sky. He had no other choice but keep walking, and so he did.

With every step, Jon lost more senses within himself. All of it went to the pulsing in his hand and head. Pain flamed against the icy sweat that coated his body, chafing his thighs and arms and torso.  There was a sharp pinch deep in his brain with every step - or moreso a shuffle - Jon took in front of him. Tingling stayed continuous at the fingertips of his injured hand and it seemed that there was a string attached to both irritants, tugging at every foot fall. Even further of an extent when Jon dully found himself on all fours. With his small remaining concept of time Jon knew it was happening more and more often.

Thankfully, along with these conflicts, Jon knew he was breathing the crisp air that filled the space around him. Breathing was the only thing he was aware he was doing; his eyes have gotten blearily, his mind stuck in a position of instinct. 

It was the wolf coming out of him; no longer was he a human desperate to survive, because why should he?  Killing men and running off was a cowards errand. Why whatever gods were helping him was beyond Jon’s current state of mind - or rather less of a mind - to gather. 

Death was surely holding him by a thinning string, but still, it would not give way. No matter how many times he gathered the energy to direct his thoughts somewhere. And that somewhere always wound up being how long he should have been no more than a bag of bones and veins at this point.

It was a while he succumbed to his eyes’ darkness, closing his eyes as he continued to walk. His brain was tight, as was his skin and his throat. His lips and mouth were dry from being dependent on that airway for breathing ever since his nose clogged hours before. 

And he was  _ hot _ . So, so hot. If his sweat did not contain salt he would be drinking it greedily, because although he was hot, the air had chilled around him. The watery snow was back to ice. 

His instinct was imploring him desperately to rip every last layer off. But he certainly would want them to return back on him soon after, and even the thought of doing either ended with enough energy being lost that Jon found himself back on the ground.

And he was so, so tired. He did not want to get up. 

Jon crusted his eyes open. The sky had darkened a bit since he closed them. 

He patted his waist coat for some leaves - pitiful, pathetic source of food - and remembered stuffing them in his mouth. The bitter taste, the refresh of water following it. Either was no more.

Jon let his forehead rest against his arm. He watched his hot breath melt the ice inches away from it. He reached his tongue...just a small bit would suffice…

And then his body finally betrayed his last will.


	2. Drifting on Lullabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds himself out of the cold. But is it much better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support on the last chapter! hope you enjoy this just as much:) i may have accidentally wrote 11k+. whoops. but we got somewhere.

Overwhelming heat; that was what he could only describe it as. 

His tired limbs flashed and jolted fervently across a scratchy surface. They felt oddly too in place - not detached parts that he commanded to move. There was no constrictions of his joints, either. Jon’s forearm could touch his bicep with no fur in between. 

But despite clearly being free of his compressing furs, Jon felt smothered - confined in an inescapable way. He jumped to his hands with a gasp. The amount of air filling his lungs was dangerously similar to the feeling of his rebirth.

“Slow down, pretty boy,” a voice drawled, sly and smirking. Jon glanced wildly for the sender. He found himself in a bricked cell of dark gates. The bars were rusted with aged grime, and the floor the few lanterns lit was probably left better unlit at his first look.

Jon found the speaker; a big lump of a man sunk into the shadows. His voice matched the deep plunge of his brows that lined the darkness of his features, rejecting Jon of any indication of what he looks like.

Jon tried to speak, but his words got caught in his throat. It hadn’t been used in weeks. He was left with a gaping mouth.

“Close yer mouth, boy. They been treatin’ you like the King with that hand o’ yers.”

Jon glanced at his hand, now pulsing at the mention. It was thickly wrapped with dingey cloth. His own tunic remained on his body, the rip not letting chilled air in like such a hole in clothing would.

“I-i need…” 

“You need nothin’, boy. They been talkin’ yer food rations  n’ everythin’.”

“Winterfell. I need to get back -”

“No Winterfell here, boy. We’re on the blues. Keep thrashin’, it gives me somethin’ to watch. Since I ain't got enough food for my cock to work, dammit.”

Jon spared the man one more glance before leaning over his thighs. His curls fell in front of him in a strange fashion; he realized his tie was still in, only barely. 

His eyes skidded the room; his coats were piled next to a crate, wet from any moisture that once froze on the surface melting in this uncomfortable heat. The musky scent of the space he was in mixed with his own body’s odor; a tell-tale sign that he merely had been thrown into this cell. Jon took in a stuttered breath filled with old sweat and natural grime.

The blues? The...Jon swallowed, concentrating on his cellmate's words and the floors beneath his thin mattress. Thye swayed-back and forth his weight moved.

He recalled the songs from Winterfell; the ones that dreamed of spring and summer that the maids hummed and overheard Lady Catelyn sang to the littlest of her litters in the room next to his. Little Jon taking the muffled lullabies to use in his own sleeping spells, where he was only accompanied by the dancing flames that the maids sometimes remembered to blow out for him. the rhymes sent the children off with images of their crib being rocked by the waves of an ocean.

The lyrics, although fuzzy from both time and misheardedness, came to him, aiding older Jon on what the younger never would wish to be needed. 

The lines and descriptions...they all led to the same depictions  Jon had taken from his own surroundings. The unfamiliar mixture in the air’s humidity was salt, the blues, the rocking...Jon was on a ship. In the ocean.

_ How in seven hells did I wind up here? _

He relapsed what he last remembered before a feverish sleep. Nothing but brutal northern air, sluggish footsteps into complete, oblivious enervation.

Jon dared a glance to his companion. The man was watching him intently; or so he looked like it, at least.

“How long have I been here?” he asked carefully.

“Hell if I know. You were bringed down ‘ere last’ night. We broke port a few days past.”

“To where?”

“Dunno. Slaver’s Bay, perhaps.”

Jon recounted what he knew of the world’s geography. “That’s in Essos.”

“Be’er get comfy, pretty boy.”

“I’m not a boy. Well pass my adulted name day.”

“‘S better than Pretty Man. Unless you got a name to yer liking.”

A bastards name. What matter would it do to his identity?

“Jon. You?” but Jon was not awarded with an answer. Instead, a glowing grin reflected in the darkness.

“Jon o’ Winterfell. Must be their bastard boy.” 

The man was smarter than Jon presumed. So now Jon had to act dumb.

“Whose bastard? I'm the son of some whore.” Truth and a lie.

“Can’t fool me, kid. Got that King’s eyes in ya.”

Jon’s silence was enough of a confirmation.

“Fine. Who are you?” 

“They call me Oland.” Sounded North enough of a name.

“And what got you here?” what got Jon here was the real question, but it was one that would not be answered by Oland.

“Tried runnin’ from the prison line. They caught me.”

“Should run faster, then.” 

Oland watched him. Jon still had yet to see his full face. 

“What were ya doin’ before this, Bastard o’ Winterfell?”

He hid his wince at the new nickname. He’d rather be called Pretty Boy than his fellow prisoner knowing his honest integrity. Frankly, he didn’t know. His mind only came up with hazy images of North’s hard winter side, the numb clench of his empty stomach, dry, freezing mouth, sore feet, and unfeeling legs. 

“Dying,” is all Jon wound up with saying. He fell back onto his cot and stared at the ceiling. 

The boards that made up the roof above him were as grimy and the bars that held him and Oland in the cell. It splintered with age and weight.

Jon's stomach growled loudly. It was a painful feeling more than embarrassing one; a tell that he had not eaten anything well over the healthy time period. The matter that he was still alive and not a starved sack of bones gave him the point that those who locked him in here must have given him something in his sleep, perhaps soup. along with the fact that they were far enough out at sea that they were away from the North’s cold - or maybe that’s just how prisons of a ship felt like; beyond humid between 

no air retribution and the only source of light being given by torches.

The heat was almost unbearable, but Jon welcomed it rather than the freeze he endured alone for days he couldn’t bring himself to count.

Oland let Jon think. He heard him settle back into his own cot.

His eyes felt heavy, but Jon didn’t let himself close them. Not five moments of awakening and already he unfolded his identity to his cellmate. No matter how tolerable it seemed Oland would be, Jon could very well face soon death if he got on Oland’s bad side;  Jon wasn't chained, and by the way Oland moved silently, he was not either.

The crates upon crates informed him that they were most likely on a merchant’s ship. Which was better in some ways; he wasn't a prisoner of a house or pirates.

But it did mean that he and Oland were nothing but more of their trade.

After minutes of trying to find any more information as to what was to come next, Jon deemed it unsuccessful and let his eyes give in to sleep. The corridors were hastily lit with the two torches and besides the crates and his old furs, Jon could not see anything. The crates were no more than shapes in the darkness anyway. 

Once again, Jon woke rather suddenly.  A squeal of hinges jumped him upright. His abdominals soring from the smallest of actions due to their weakened misuse.

Natural light filled the cavern, blinding Jon’s sleep-sensitive eyes.

Footsteps sounded. There was a loud echo of wood slamming against itself, and as soon as it came, the light was gone. Jon lied back down.

Neither of them moved as a person walked quickly to the gate of the cell and unlatched it. They stood in the space, blocking anything from escaping. 

Quiet knees sounded by Jon’s mattress, and a candle’s light heated at his hip. Slim fingers turned his injured palm up - soft and a bit chilled, the skin was. After weeks of such harsh conditions, the gentleness alarmed Jon. So much curiosity for the host compiled him that he opened his eyes that he close some time ago, and looked at his maester. 

His heart stopped as he set his eyes on a boy no older than Ollie.

But much more alive than he.

His heart returned to beating, only faster than before - almost as quick as the lad’s fingers worked, unwrapping his soiled bandages. 

Jon watched under hooded eyes the kid’s intent, focused mind at work. Worry buried deep in his young features, no doubt the outcome that came from caring for the prisoner’s hand that could strangle him at any second.

It wasn't until he dosed his cloth in water to wash Jon’s wound - the water stung, and Jon realized it was probably from the sea’s salt. Without having time to swallow the reflex, Jon automatically reacted to the sudden twinge. His movement startled to boy enough to cause him to fall back, locking his wide eyes with Jon.

Jon wanted to assure him that he would not hurt a child as he, not like his own maester probably warned him about...but showing that weakness was not applicable. Especially in front of Oland, who knew too much already. 

The boy jumped to his feet silently, snatching his supplies away in a manner pointing to Jon being no more than a rabid dog.

“Tell the Captain the prisoner is awake, sir,” the boy said solemnly. His eyes didn’t match his tone. He kept those eyes on Jon for one more second before ducking under the guard's arm. 

The accompanied guard locked the gates with an anointed look at Oland before following the boy back outside.

“Scared the balls off Bannon. Been waitin’ for that one.”

Jon clenched his jaw.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again. This time it was longer before it closed, and there were different sets of footsteps. Jon pushed off his hand to sit up, recalling the pain his muscle still held from his previous encounter. 

A figure blocked the torch and stood there, looking at Jon. Jon looked back. The others were bathed in shadow and darkness but they appeared at the gate. Like before, it was unlocked and the young boy started to come in - but before he could go too far, a guard pulled him back out. A plump woman replaced him.

“You now grew the reputation to give our maesters quite a fright. Brannon will have the shakes for a bit from your meet. And Elyel has been prayin’ since you arrived. Quite a fever you built,” the shadow spoke. His voice held a sense of grown importance. Must be the Captain.

The woman - Elyel, from context - tended to his hand. Expecting the sting, Jon braced his free hand on the small bit of fabric he had been given. He clenched it as the salt soaked into the wounds.

“How did I get here?” His voice came out raspier than it was before. Although they already saw his face, let his curls over-frame it.

“Where do you come from where the man in charge does not ask the questions first?” the man adjusted his stance. “Who are you, Boy?”

There it was again; ‘Boy’. But again, he'd rather that than his name. And although there were numerous other nicknames, ‘Boy’ was one of the only ones that weren't going to destroy him or his self will.

Hypocrite. Bastard. Murderer.

A few that were much more fitting. 

It was the Gods’ game.

But none of those names would suffice.

Jon kept silent for too long.

“He’s Ned Stark’s Bastard boy,” Oland revealed. Jon cursed his own previous idiocy. 

A laugh rung the air.

“Hah! A Stark boy, you say? The irony, it holds, that a wolf came so close to killing one of its own. And in their shared territory, no rather.”

“The infection is almost completely subsided, Captain Mynge,” Elyel stated quickly.

“Then that is good news.”

Getting rid of the infection - which explained a lot of his behavior nearing the end of his final collapse during his long walk -  _ was _ good news. Why it was good for his captor told him he might be better off dead, though.

“You see, Jon Snow - that's the bastard name of the North if I'm so correct - When we first found you, no more than a heap of cold bones, I thought you would be an easy sell to slaves after some weeks working as a sailor for me. But seeing as you being the Stark boy...you've got some good training under your belt. I'd like to see it before my next action. Brannon?” Mynge cued. 

Brannon handed him a small bag. He emptied it into his hand and tossed the contents through the bars. Half a loaf of bread bounced off Jon’s lap and onto the ground. The hard sound the impact made implied the bread was not exactly fresh. Jon grabbed it with his free hand anyway, hurriedly gnawing on it with hungry teeth.

The other thing was a canteen. He held the bread between his teeth as he pried the cap open. Jon drank greedily, shortly sputtering at the strong taste of wine. It has been a while since his mouth came in contact with anything besides bitter earth.

The Captain watched him eat. He watched him drink the whole thing and crunch on the stale bread with his sensitive, unused teeth. Elyel finished his wrapping after coated the wounds with a salve some time in; he startled her by saying ‘Thank you’...perhaps the politeness was something she did not get often. Especially from the prisoners.

Jon wiped his lips and kept his head down as Elyel exited the cell. Oland kept odiously silent.

With a certain lurch of the boat beneath him, the food and wine came right back up, emptying on the floor on the other side of his pallet. There was a snicker from the other side of his cell, at it made him glance at the Captain through his lowered brows. 

Mynge tossed one more object at him. Jon partially caught the half of an apple in his wrapped hand.

“Get used to the rockin’, Jon Snow. I need your strength.”

The Captain, still too shadowed to see, walked over to his heap of old furs. He reached under them and pulled something out, bringing it back to where he stood before. On the wall opposite to the iron bars, Mynge rested the object - long and skinny - against it. When he moved away from the flickering torchlight, Longclaw’s carved eyes reflected.

“And hope you’re familiar with that blade. Life or death, it holds for you.”

The Captain started walking away.

“What?! No bites fer me?!” Oland called after him. Mynge paused and turned his head. From the new angle, Jon could see some of his features. Greying beard and sun dotted skin. With the Captain’s silent order, Bannon scurried back to the gate of the cell, reaching back into his satchel and tossing some food at Oland. He caught it with no difficulty and ate it without looking at what it was. With one last look at Jon, Bannon followed everyone back up to the deck.

Jon watched Oland take one last bite. Oland caught his stare, settling to give him one in return.

“I’ve spended enough time ‘n cells to know not to look at what they give us too close.”

Jon bent in his hand, munching on the old apple, ignoring the taste of bile coating his mouth.

Waking startled was getting to be routine by the third time. Jon woke just in time to get the hardtack before it fell into the place he previously puked. Water was in a cup at the front of the cell. He crawled to it, picking the cup up just in time to catch a sudden rock of the ship from spilling it. He looked at the stick of carrot that fell on his cot and grabbed it, taking a bite out before examining the hardtack. 

He’s heard of it before.grind it into your water and drink it. But they hadn’t given him a knife; he needed to use something else. 

Jon glanced around the cell. When no sharp objects appeared in the space, he turned to the object right across from him.

Longclaw was still white despite the orange tint that filled the level. He knew it was a fools game to try and reach for it, but went for it anyway.

“First time in a cell, mate?”

Jon directed the glare for Oland at his focus on longclaw.

“The blades just outta yer reach, boy. Aint gettin’ it.”

Jon gave one last reach before surrendering to the logic.

Only when he pulled away did he notice the roughness of the iron bars; the grittiness left small pains at his shoulder and chin when he pulled away.

It may be rough enough.

He raised the cup with his incapable hand and hardtack with the other. He started to grind it along the gritty edge, catching anything that fell from it.the method was working.

At his amazement, a chuckle came from Oland.

“I heard it was dreary in the North, but not so much fer royalty.”

“I’m not royalty.”

His arms ached; both with and the effort it took, muscles being used after a while or not, and the weight of holding the water.

Jon wiped his finger along the grates to get any shreds attached into the cup.he could feel nothing but fire soring his arms, and with a coat of shredded hardtack covered the surface of the water, he believed it was enough for now.

He drank from the cup, condoning the water to unquench what wine could not. The water was not in any way cold or refreshing, but at least they were giving him water. Jon would imagine it not exactly of ample supply out here.

With his stomach feeling partially fuller than before, Jon collapsed back onto his cot, finally allowing himself to think in this time of consciousness and small comfort.

The situation has wound up in what was at this point, truly impeccable luck. What did the Gods think he deserved? The amount of suffering he had walked on through, well, he accepted it without complaint because he deserved it. Every morsel. Bannon had a right to be scared; that fear that had set within his eyes was something everyone should have. In his path was untouched snow, glistening and a white blanket to the world. And all he did was trudge through it; ruining the fate of nature and its beauty. 

Constant thoughts ran fast through his mind; so much so that it made Jon hotter than before. There was no escape of it. The very thought of coolness was far off on his dreams’ horizons. Instead, his stomach boiled, his mind melted into liquid filling his head; his thoughts of why he was still breathing made his breaths hot and unsteady.

Jon swallowed his bile and squeezed his eyes shut. 

The gods were stringing him along. It was about time he ought to attempt to pick up the thread.

 

* * *

 

It consisted of the same routine, much like his time on his march. Body adjusting to waking up in the heat, mouth dry and body sweaty with the little hydration it mustered.

His body had adjusted within two days to wake when they would bring down his water; as if the lazy slam of the roof door was not enough to a rose him. If Jon didn’t wake quickly, the rocking of the boat would splash the water out. Or Oland would take it for himself.

At every slam, Jon would roll off his coat and over to the bars where his portions were left. As he would eat and settle, Oland would try to start more conversation, but Jon didn’t believe himself to be in a correct state of mind to talk, especially without revealing anything he did not want. He was hoping that the Captain would forget about who he was at whatever slaving auction they were to go to. Being nothing but a homeless bastard would help him more than his blood half Stark.

His days instead consisted of grinding his hardtack into its shreds. When he ran out of water, Jon stored the crumbs that came out of it in another ripped piece of fabric taken from his disappearing tunic. With nothing else to do he would keep at it no matter how much his hands cramped. He was attempting to gain whatever he lost in his injured hand.

Jon’s hand had started to heal quicker, at that; his dressing had not been changed since his encounter with Bannon or the Captain.

The hours he would let his arms rest after being used into unbearable soreness were filled with thought. What got him there, what may be ahead of him, and everything between connecting to each other and giving him hints. He assured the Captains words, telling him to get stronger, was because the more strength he gained, the more he would be worth. 

Somehow, when the time came, Jon would find a way to get out of wherever he was. The only reason he could see he was chosen to keep walking after death and avoid being a Wight was his right. 

But as for wights - he was not far off. He was just as good as a walking corpse that kills. He barely felt anything - that's what ice does once it sets in one’s skin - besides the difference between the heat and cold. He just had one more thought than them. One more morsel of a brain.

But his only idea of why he still walked, even though he was more Wight than human, was to get back to Winterfell. His family was gone - probably all dead. He may have only been half stark, but there was no starks left; and as much much as it would make Lady Catelyn turn in her grave, he was the next in line.

Not that he wanted it. He did not like the particular idea of ruling for no reason other than because there is no one else in the family. Nor did he think he was fit to rule in the good taste of the people...not since Castle Black. The final spiral that got him here.

But he wouldn't have to; he could turn it over to someone much able, once he succeeded it back. A Stark wouldn’t have to rule, but it should be a Stark handing over the crown. As long as he stayed. There must always be a Stark in the north. Half-blood or not.

And maybe, once he did that, the Gods would give him more of a hint of his step to take after that.

Thinking of that stashes of food he had been able to collect - even if most was readied-hardtack - Jon felt hesitant. Grateful, but hesitant. On the other end of his cell, Oland received barely half of what Jon was given in comparison. And with the size Jon has seen Oland looking to be, it was not near enough, what they were giving him. And Jon didn't want to know why that was. No matter how much he also knew he needed to if he were to follow his motive to return to Winterfell.

The heat was not something he was generally used to; at least not to this amount of it. And Jon would like to think that was the only reason for his discomfort.

It might also be the constant eyes Oland would make to Jon; starting when it was clear Jon was no longer going to speak him. By Jon making that decision, it became just as clear that he did not trust Oland. He was now no more than a bastard taking more food that he needed himself, heating the confined space with his feverish skin and breaths. The first time the rocking of the ship threw Jon’s rations back up was also not the last; frequently more than not, Jon's body would betray the adaption to the sea’s waves and fill their cabin with a stench worse than what was already left between the old wood, burning torches, sick skin, and piss that had nowhere else to go.

But the slice of good that came out of it was what came up being more bile than food; to himself, Jon seemed a bit more steady on his bones even after only a few days of barely bountiful prison rations. Better than what he had in the weeks of trudging through the barren Northern wood.

* * *

 

The torch light had just died its last sparks; and from what Jon had taken from previous nights, it was bedtime around the ship.

But not soon after did Jon still lie awake, moving his legs around his thin mattress to find a cool spot. Although the lack of light horrifyingly prompted his memory to pull to the time he sat in the void from his death and rebirth, when the Gods dangled him by fingertips for the days in between...it was always a small break of the heat that it gave them, that absence of fire. 

But it was also surely interrupted. Both he and Oland turned their heads at the familiar creak of the trapdoor that acted as the portal between hell and authorities. A small star of a lantern climbed down to ladder and was paired with small footsteps padding across. With a clang of keys and echoing click, their door swung open. In stepped a small and familiar silhouette. 

“Boy, it seems well past yer bed hour,” Oland grunted.

Bannon kneeled silently - as always - at Jon’s side. His eyes filled with the same fright Jon saw in him the last visit he was conscious for.

But it wasn’t exactly the same...Bannon worked confidently on Jon, unwrapping his bandages quickly but with no shakes. Jon watched the child work... The boy eyed his wound before locking eyes with Jon -  a sudden event catching Jon off guard. Bannon turned to his satchel, small and patched now that Jon can look at it - And pulled out a wooden spoon, motioning to Jon's mouth. Behind him, Jon watched Oland’s shadow loom to the end of his cot, watching intently.

Jon adjusted the spoon between his teeth. He wasn't completely sure of what was to come, but it surely would be enough pain to break clenching teeth.

He closed his eyes in time to see a silver glint come from the small satchel.

And then a blinding pain - enough to snap his eyes right back open and grunt through an involuntary scream. 

He caught Bannon's work... The young maester was  _ cutting _ him. Cutting his wound, removing skin from his hand that they hadn't tended in days.

His throat turned into rock rubbing rock, the pain absolutely searing and unforgettable. 

Thrashing, he was. Jon was thrashing against the pain. His body giving into any reflex it could endure. His body moved but Bannon refused to let him interrupt his work.

Seven.  _ Fucking. HELLS. _

Hot steel against hot flesh;  the simmering sound of Flesh cooking. Once the scent reached his nostrils, Jon squeezed his eyes shut until they reached the void.

 

* * *

 

He woke with a sigh followed by a cry from his scratchy throat that was left over from his last period of consciousness. 

Jon opened his eyes blearily. The hue in the cabin was orange like always. At his soundly awakening Oland’s side of the cell creaked with movement.

“You made it. Betting you weren't gonna.” 

Jon peeled his eyes to Oland. He was chewing.

“What…”  He knew what happened. But a rehash might knock him out, with what of gory details, and he could sleep even more. Sleeping with the pulsing state his hand has returned to was not going to be in close reach.

“Boy came down to fix ye up. Cut yer dead skin off. Had a fever for some hours.”

“Sorry,” Was all Jon could think of responding with.

Oland took a bite - rather large - from one of his palms. There was a new torchlight, and from it Jon could make out the growing beard Oland has developed since their meeting and the crumbs that have dropped into it.  

Oland held his palms up to Jon. In each were biscuits and apples - full ones.

“That kid’s an angel. Predicted yer loudmouth ‘n everything. Even gave me some proper food as a peace offering.”

At the mention of food, Jon looked to his regular spot and found it bare.

“No five courses for ye yet.”

His head buzzed in between his tortured hand and the thought of not getting water anytime soon. The torch showed they had just come down to change it... But without food. Although his first assumption should be Oland, there wasn't even the sign of a cup or crumbs. Anyway, Oland would have made it known if he had indeed stolen anything.

His body was beginning to get used to having food regularly. It growled loudly.

The injured hand was wrapped tightly, bringing a tingling feeling in his fingertips. The thick layers of cloth brought even more warmth to his body.

Jon sat up and took his small bundle of cloth from the corner he stored it in. Inside was the shredded hardtack; he did not have water, but spit may indeed work just fine. He licked his finger -  the tastes not exactly Pleasant - and ignoring how his tongue felt like nothing more than old velvet.

With the little wetness on his fingertip, Jon started to press it to the dustings of hardtack and putting them under his tongue. With the bottom of his mouth full, Jon returned the pouch to its place. He laid back and mix the bits around in his mouth... A small distraction from the pain in his hand and the one traveling to his head. Lack of water in the heat was surely getting to him.

It was only minutes after he swallowed the scratchy bits that failed to soft in his mouth. The door opened, giving Jon and Oland the few seconds of natural light. But there is no food in the hands of the sailors; two of them, buff with strength the sea winds gave them. The gate was opened. The gateway was left blank. Jon and Oland starred as no one stepped in.

“Get up. The Cap’n wants ye.”

Losing any sort of hesitation, Jon sat up, grabbing onto the bars to hoist himself to a standing position. Neither of them had chosen to be on their feet and days. Personally, Jon's blistered feet needed a break.

His bare feet were sensitive on the hard ground. He walked towards the open gate, taking in the middle-aged faces of the sailors. He heard Oland’s own self follow behind him.

There was a distinct change of air quality and temperature as they walk closer to the ladder. Jon kept his head down, pausing before the rungs. His knees were shaking with the pain buzzing all through his veins. A sailor pushed him hard on the shoulder, mutely and aggressively commanding him to go forward. Like he needed to be told more than once to leave this hell cavern.

Jon situated his hands to hold the rungs. He could only use his fingertips on his left hand and even that traveled pressure to his cups. He would much rather be bitten by wolves ten times over. 

It was an obscene amount of time Jon took to climb up. When he got to the top, Jon realized he was to push the door open himself. He hooked an arm around the top rung and braced his right hand on the wood and pushed. 

His eyes were forced closed at the sudden brightness that shined into the opening crack. He opened it enough to slither through blindly. The feeling of a chill and natural Breeze he had not felt since far back into the change from the long summer overtook him. Jon flipped onto his back, testing a squint up to the blue sky as men laughed around his exhausted state. His limbs were tired from the short climb. At the reopening of the door, Jon took one last breath before squabbling to his feet.

His hair acted as a curtain as he stood an unbalanced stature, head away from the teasing eyes. He watched Shadows gather behind him.

It was almost like the air was soap, cleaning his lungs from anything that coated it in the days where he breathed stale air bat first swept through dirty, old wood.

A hard hand shoved him forward. The sun beat on his neck where his outgrown hair parted. It was a comfortable heat; not like what he sat in beneath the deck, but a balance with the chill that carried in the misty air. The eased the shivers that rose along his arms.

His eyes kept in line with his feet and exposed calves; the growing soot and ash that the air had gathered from the burning torches had prominently settled atop his skin. The sides of his feet flaked with dead skin drying out. 

“Bastard of the North,” A strong voice bellowed. Captain Mynge. “And Oland of Stubbornness.”

Disapproving voices formed around them. Apparently, Oland was smarter in being asked his primary location.

Shiny boots walking into Jon's line of sight. Jon looked up through his lowered brows.

Mynge looked down his nose from where he stood, a few feet from him.

“When you revealed your name, the rumor of your great swordsmanship came fresh to my mind. I doubted your skill in the state you were in when we found you -  a pitiful one, rather. But you have proved to strengthen fast, and are better now.” Mynge squinted at Jon's stance after his statement as if running the truth behind it in his mind - “And we are bored men.” His gloved hands attached to some buckles hidden under his waistcoat. In seconds a sword appeared and was thrust into Jon's chest. His hand closed around the base of the blade, taking in the hilt and lining that screamed authority. The grip was fancy; with heavy, engraved gold, designed in two lines that overlapped each other.

He was in no way better as the Captain had assumed, although Jon may have believed differently so the day before. But he felt himself on the brink of a fever. And honestly, every step stung his healing blisters at the bottom of his feet. A new sort of sweat gathered at his nape.

“Let's see what you are worth, Jon Snow.”

Jon attempted to turn to face Oland. His face was in full view, but Jon lost any interest in knowing his opponent’s appearance.

He did not know where his feet were as this man's prisoner. Slave.  Frankly, Jon did not know his label. But most likely, when they hit land, he would surely be a slave in one way or another. As a help or an escort.

And this fight surely -  as Mynge said himself - would prove where he was to go. and the fields sounded better, then filling the shit world with unwanted children.

Jon gripped the blade, attempting to on shield fit with the fingertips of his bad hand. As soon as he was close to succeeding, despite the pain it brought him, the ship rocked in a way his feet could not find purchase two. Jon's weight shifted too far to the left, and he collapsed onto the deck.

Laughs echoed around him. Jon glanced around the gathered Circle; all mostly Shaggy old Sailors in need of a pocket of gold or silver. Some younger heads mixed in, but enough he could only count on one hand.

Speaking of hands, his bad one felt worse, shaking with the effort Jon's attempt at pulling the sword out called for.

It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.  _ Itdoesn'thurtitdoesn'thurtitdoesn'thurt. _

But it did really fucking hurt.

He ignored the bruises he felt forming on his side rather quickly and put his knee on the bottom of the cover, pulling the sword out with one long pull. Jon left the belt abandoned as he pushed to his feet.

Oland waited for him, sword in a hand large enough to crush skulls. With the sunlight blaring on both of them, Jon could see his bald head stood a bit above 6 feet. His beard was a bright auburn and growing thickly with the lack of grooming. Blood and scars scattered every exposed part of the man's body; and in the spots that were shown mercy, they only ended with the skin ranging in injured colors.

Jon adjusted his stance, working the unbalanced sword into his one usable hand. It had been weeks since he held a sword; only now did he truly understand his father's words of a swing a day to his mind.

Oland’s sword seemed like it was around the same size as Jon's, but lighter in his particular grip. He twisted it in his palm effortlessly, eyes dark and defensive. Jon's sense of sound drew away from him as he gulped down his dry throat, and all he could hear was ranges of loud and soft cheers and calls. 

Predator on prey, he and Oland circled each other. Jon’s shoulder already ached with the weight of the sword, but he was to conceal any of it.

_ Think of the North. Become numb. Only another soldier on a field. _

“These men will duel,” Mynge’s voice announced somewhere in the mix of everything. The drowned screams heightened. “They will fight until one falls.”

Although Jon could insinuate that was why he was here, the confirmation was unsettling.

He took a deep breath, exhaling heavily and shakily.

“I don't believe the opponents need to know further reasoning. And so with that, they can begin.”

Two more steps and Oland swung. Jon deflected the swing with one of his own.

The imbalance in his wrist went over the sides of his feet. Jon stumbled to the right. As he did so, Oland gave another swing. Jon used the fall to turn around himself and catch the blade with his own.

Between Oland’s already common strength and Jon's lack of his left hand -  as well as his genuine weakened state - Oland’s blade pushed against Jon's, bringing both closer to his tightening face. Realizing his one hand could not go against all of Oland’s strength, Jon brought his opposite forearm to brace both off of him.

No blood came from where his arm came in contact with the swords; meaning, despite this being fashioned as the Captain's gifted sword, it was blunt. Not many cuts would come from this fight; it was merely to tire them.

Understanding this, especially as early as he had, was a pro on Jon's side. Jon's stamina was to its peak between his weeks of walking followed by excessively resting any exhausted limbs. All he needed to do was stay on his feet.

Surprisingly, he deflected many of the hits with his own. Jon tried his best to not think about being tired and instead to full force forward. His foot placement hardly mattered, but it was of personal importance to reserve that point of training.

When he was a lad back in  Winterfell, swordsmanship was one of the few educations Jon was condoned to receive. Anything he got he treasured and appreciated to the last lick of the plate.

Muscle memory, it was. He sidestepped when needed and only shook his jittering arm out when he was sure he had a second. his feet crossed each other and the balls of his feet found balance and proper weight shift. It was like a dance, ancient and dangerous.

But along with it, Oland was not of the North; if he was, it was different, brude surroundings he learned to fight in. His style reminded Jon relative of the Freefolk, each play aggressive and brutal, his moves all a series of killers’ blows.

The circle that gathered around them had widened and shifted throughout their engagence. Oland’s strides were long, matching the length of his legs. A common disadvantage to Jon that he would face. With each of Oland’s steps Jon took several more. The sunlight reflecting off of their surfaces masking whatever expression drilled into Oland’s hard-face.

Jon struck low on one of Oland's hits, hitting his fingers. The action miraculously caused Oland to drop the sword with a curse.  

Jon was no longer on Oland's good side.

At his distracted state, Jon took a few steps away to put a good distance in between the two of them. As Oland bent to get his sword with a huff, Jon adjusted his stance.

His scars had become sore with the exertion they had not yet been exposed to. It felt as if they were stretched too far; Jon rounded his back to soothe them. His left hand draped limply at his side and his sword hand raised in a practiced position. The sword tips down, the weight unsupported by his tired arm.

His curls were wet with dripping sweat and salty water that had been carried up from the ocean through the air. The tendrils hung in front of his face, outgrown, dark, and curly. Unruly distraction.

Two more breaths in and out. His feet fell around the deck, sun-soaked wood plies burning his feet. Jon appreciated the soft breeze going through the rips of his tunic as well as the last few seconds before Oland attacked again. But after his moment of rest, coming back into it was more tiring than the adrenaline his instinct gave him before. The same exhaustion he felt walking through the north returned. 

Their sprawl was clumsy and training. Jon took to start initiating himself, despite his muscles imploring him not to. The only thing the decision improved was his pride in not just running.

But he  _ was _ just running. Any barrel, rope, or pole that would work in his favor was either too thick to cut through with the brunt of the blade he had or was outside the ring of men.

Oland kept strong, taking any hit Jon got past him with a circling saunter. Not long in Jon found himself pathetically recoiling into himself, like a boy on a battlefield. Nothing came out of his initiative moves besides Oland striking it away from him, twisting Jon's arm even more. Any sense of training or skill Jon had ever acquired was buried deep beneath his thirst and hunger and exhaustion of the heat.

He knew it ended when his bones clacked on the boards, sun disappearing in Oland’s shadow. He didn’t hear it, but the lack of advance told him enough.

With the pressure off his feet and anxiety of the next move’s reflex lifting off his chest, Jon’s brain cleared along with his ears.

Laughs and shouts filled them in an echoed manner before the Captain’s voice through all of it together.

“Ah, it's alright, boy!” He teased. “Oland, here it off some impressive proportion. Surely you would not have won no matter how good of teachings you got.”

Jon looked up from his crippled state, eyes previously focused on the sword that clattered away, embarrassingly through his brows and loose curls. Mynge’s silhouette merged with Oland’s in the sun’s direct light. It had moved since they began. 

He had withstood Wight Walkers. A man should not have given him trouble. 

“Let’s give you some fight a bit fairer.” Mynge stepped away from Oland and looked past Jon. “Strongorm! Deck, boy!” 

Jon looked over his shoulder that was starting to sore from the hard impact. The named ‘Strongorm’ was a decent looking sailor fashioned to be a bit on the side of higher rank than the others aboard. A bit older than Jon, but his eye told him the sailor had seen as much as someone less than his age.

Rather casually he walked to stopped a few steps behind Jon’s heap. “Yes, Cap’n.”

“Draw your sword.”

Steel made its revealing sound. Pristine glow shone from it.

“Go on,” Mynge prompted. “Help your opponent onto his feet. I've taught you courtesy. Once he stands, we commence.”

Strongorm stepped closer to Jon. he picked up the dropped blade off the deck and Doug the tip of it inches from Jon's knees, the reflection of the sun heating his eyes.

With a signaling nod to it, Jon realized the sailor was giving him the sword back. He exchanged the handle and uses the anchored tip to push himself to stand. 

But as soon as his feet met the woods, a kick to the sword caused it to give way, taking Jon with it.

Jon’s knees gained splinters through the thin fabric covering his knees as his chin smashed against the boards. He grunted loudly involuntarily.

A small trust that was easily betrayed. He looked too far into Strongorm’s youth and mistook it for mercy.

Laughs wrung out widely. Jon closed his eyes with a huff, once again giving in to his body’s exhaustion. The hot boards singed his whole front, but once again. He did not care, nor even felt it.

“Ha! There you have it, my men! Best swordsman of the North!” Mynge mocked. Jon lulled his head to his right cheek on the ground, opening his eyes to look at his left hand. Ruined when it was almost healed. When it felt better; not completely usable, but somewhat. His eyes roamed beyond his hand...and sure enough, Bannon stood with his young face red within the heat of the sky, deeply looking at the man laying on the deck before him. Hopefully knowing half of it was his doing.

But Jon couldn’t get too angry at the moment. He held his anger in his hands’ tension, which would only make the pain worse. And frankly, he was too exhausted to be, anyway.

A shadow cut in front of him, and with a grip on his bruising chin, Jon was jerked into a kneel. 

Mynge’s eyes were a handsome green, Jon realized, now that he was close to him. But that was the only thing a woman may have found attractive by the sea-rugged Captain staring him down.

“You’re nothin’ more than another prisoner now, boy,” he seethed. Any friendliness that Jon once was given an illusion of disappeared by the tone alone. “An imposter with some pretty hair. That gets in the face, I see.” Mynge took note of his curls falling to his face, the last of whatever once held it back lost within the fight. He emphasized it with a hard handful gripping his scalp. The feeling must've been unpleasant considering how much sweat and dirt and natural grime that was coating his strands by now, even compared to any life aboard a ship with sweating shipmates. 

“Nevermind, that. A trim is all you need.” Jon choked on the air making its way down his throat his Mynge pulled his head back, skull against spine. A Dagger appeared… and for a split, unruly second, Jon was relieved to finally die. 

But it wasn’t the sound of his neck ripping open; but rather, the distantly familiar din of hair being cut.

His head was forcefully released as the knife finished its cut through. He caught himself on his hands without thinking, which resulted in a pathetic mix between a cry out and a cough on air.

His curls now fell unevenly around his face, shiny and ringey with his head’s oils. Jon prepared to be pulled back up by his nape’s hair section, but it never came.

“That ought to be enough to pique some buyers’ interests. Aye, men?” cheers erupted.

Jon looked up from the ground, his curtain of hair that would usually hide any defeated look now lost. He made eye contact with Bannon. The boy stood tall, looking down his nose. Like what he did to Jon the night before was an act of punishment.

_ It is,  _ Jon realized.  _ Bannon might as well be a ghost sent to haunt me. This is the price I pay for the life I took back, and the ones I ended. It’s all a test. _

“Return to work, boys!” Mynge prompted. He turned back to Jon, who watched all the sailors shuffle to their posts with eyes still hard on him. “Find your way back to your cell. We have more important things to do.”

As the Captain walked away, Jon took one more deep breath before attempting to push himself to his feet. Instead, a wave of nausea crashed into him, and he collapsed back onto the deck, gagging. There wasn’t anything in his stomach to puke up.

A slim grip closed around his bicep. It bid to pull him up with little success. He raised his eyes, off-put by the idea of a sailor wanting to help the prisoner after both laughing for the past lapse of his time on deck and in the presence of the Captain. 

His glance fell onto no one other than Bannon, the stupid boy. He stilled at the sight, almost feeling appalled by the audacity the kid had, but mostly reading his face for any type of regret. It came back at him as unreadable; blank. His eyes held something different. Relative to concern, maybe, but not quite that. He was too bleary to think further.

Jon averted his eyes and put a little more effort into getting up now with the help of someone. He was half-way standing, preparing his muscles to take a step when the Captain’s voice boomed from the higher deck.

“Bannon, boy! Get up here and trace the starboard!” At the sound of Mynge, Bannon abandoned Jon within a blink. Thankfully Jon only stumbled; he was on his blistering feet, and therefor, could make it to his cell. Somehow. 

He only took a few stuttered steps before a guttural voice let out a “ _ Bloody Hells” _ and two stronger hands hooked his elbows and pulled him two long steps to the door going below-deck. A catch of red hair covering the arms told Jon it was Oland. 

He let go of Jon at the door to open the hatchet. Jon scrambled to the ladder, gaining a sudden need to go below deck at the thought of the cellroom’s darkness and shade. He lowered into the heat that was differently uncomfortable and relieving of the sun’s rays.

Jon didn't ask questions as he collapsed onto his bed, body giving into sleep before Oland settled on the bottom floor.

  
  


* * *

 

 

When Jon awoke, it was like his senses were on a different routine. 

The last thing to awake was his comprehension. And before that, it was his hearing. 

Screams and cries echoed from above their cell.

Jon scrambled to sit up. He snapped his head to Oland, whom he could now picture despite the shadows, bewildered. Oland’s eyes piqued with interest and curiosity.

Murmured yells were followed by a snap of something; the something not a chance being anything other than a whip. He could identify that sound even through wood. The Starks spent enough time taming horses to know.

The sound that followed the whip was the cry of a human. A younger one, no doubt, that had not yet been acquaintanced with the pain of punishment.

Jon recalled all the faces on the ship from when he stood in front of them. He only was able to picture one that could match the highness of the screams. He hadn't even heard Bannon speak, but knowing a face was enough. 

He counted six more repetitions and gagged himself ten times more.

Jon could not decide who’s punishment it really was.

 

* * *

 

 

His body woke up at the sound of their cell gate opening. His stomach growled at the memory of what that sound brought, but nothing but the Captain walked in instead.

“We’re arriving at the Bay soon,” Mynge said, sitting next to Jon. Jon reluctantly opened his eyes. “And I've had some time to think. I decided I want you looking your best for the arrival. You’ve already caused enough trouble, I might as well get a full payout of you.”

Jon did nothing but stare at a particular bar beyond Mynge’s ear.  Oland had his head turned to the two from his bed. Mynge produced his dagger.

“And some sample locks might be of good use, anyway.”

Jon let him cut his hair. He assumed he was leaving most on, since he could still feel the ends tickle his ears, but between Mynge’s probable lack of expertise and the low light of the room, it was no doubt heavily uneven. He wouldn’t be looking in the mirror any time soon. He didn't have an urge to care.

The hair was placed in a pile presumably atop a cloth. Jon had to admit; Mynge was being smart with his hair. Odd people spent a many coin on the attribute. The Red Priestess herself would probably be interested. 

He shook Jon's newly cut head out, an eerily resemblance to how a mother would ruffle her son’s. Just as Jon thought he’d be done and be allowed to lay down and think about how empty his stomach was growing to be, Mynge took his chin in hand again. Jon had forgotten about the bruise that formed there until that interaction. He hissed before remembering to conceal his weaknesses.

Mynge then shaved his beard; if the was what they could call it. He hasn't bothered to bring any sort of salve down, and instead, carved the hair off along with Jon’s dried and dehydrated skin. Jon allowed it all the happen, even when he felt the blood drip off his jaw after rocks of the ship caused unwanted scaths.

The Captain finished it with a hard brush on each cheek, mocking a real barber. His hands can away slick with Jon’s blood. He pulled back and surveyed his work.

“You would actually be seen quite serious now, if you were to impersonate a Stark.”

He stood, and Jon immediately retreated to his back. Oland’s head moved with Mynge’s walk out of the cell.

Jon closed his eyes, half appreciating the small new relief of coolness on his neck. But he did not hear any footsteps.

“Where did you get this,” Mynge asked, almost as an innocent inquiry. 

Jon opened his eye, knowing it was directed at him. Mynge was holding Longclaw, admiring the pommel as if he hadn’t before that moment. 

“It was a gift to me,” Jon said carefully. His tongue was thick in his mouth. “From a Lord Commander.”

Mynge shifted his gaze to Jon, head still angled towards Longclaw.

“Stop tryin’ to prove your royalty, lad.” He dropped Longclaw on the ground with a loud clatter. Jon knew better than to watch it fall, but the stark white of it shined out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t far from the bars of their cell. “And maybe i’ll give you a bite or two.” he threw something round towards Oland. The throw was lousy, though; the object, some sort of fruit most likely, rolled around their cell and landed at the foot of the cot.

Oland watched the fruit roll and stop like it was a mere game; not his one meal for the day. 

He swung his legs underneath him, eyes trained suspicious hard on it.  On all four he crawled once, twice; from Jon’s perspective, nothing more than a lump traveling across.

And then in a blink, the fruit was behind him and Longclaw in the other. He had reached through the bars after a dart of a lunge. Oland was quick to  grab and get it up; but Mynge was quicker. His boot stomped on the heel of the blade, crushing Oland’s fingers with in. Oland drew back just as quick.

Jon was terrified of how fast it happened. What was to happen next. If he were to flag Bannon, a boy, for putting a single hand on a helpless prisoner, what was he to do to a murderous one?

Nothing, it seemed. He used his foot to push it beyond their reach with his eyes on Oland, and then returned up deck.

 

* * *

 

 

He had nothing else to think about, so Jon was worried.

His hunger was way past anything he could fathom. Luckily, they gave him a small cup of water, but when he went to look for his hardtack, it was gone. He savored the cup in all but one gulp, wishwashing the room-tempered water in his dry mouth before swallowing. The cup was tin and relented some coolness when he pressed it against his pounding head.

But laying there doing nothing, unlike when he had some sort of motivation and distraction during his walk in the north, Jon had no energy to do anything. 

He was only stuck with thoughts, too tired to speak. Even his thoughts were weary and unbalanced in connection. Only bits and pieces as  _ What will happen now  _ and the sound of a whip with the surprise carried along after it.

He had dozed off some time across, and when he woke, Oland was playing with some new cuffs on his wrist. The iron locked his right side the bars, high up on his cot. Far enough for his food to either be throw from the gates or Jon would need to bring it to him since he was no longer able to reach where it would be given to him.

Jon looked for any signs of violence he had missed in his sleep. Nothing more than what he previously had was marked upon him.

The boat beneath them was a bit more unsteady than usual. Waves crashed against the sides, and Jon pictured what it might had looked like.

His body pulled him back to sleep like it was a rocking cradle.

 

* * *

 

“ _ Get up, Dammit!” _

Overwhelming cold; that was he could describe it as.

Jon jumped out of his state with a hit of confusion and contrast.

Beneath him, his cot was saturated with water. It made sense, figuring there was a huge hole the lantern burned through the ship’s wood across from him.

Jon gasped at the sight, scurrying much like a resemblance of his resurrection. That sort of panic. The one he dreamed whether it go away.

The salt water burned his eyes and cheek and scars and _hand,_ _Gods’ shitting Hells._

He snapped over to Oland who was already awake. He was pulling against his new restraints, the iron no doubt heating up it the  _ fire _ this room had turned into. The hole the wall of fire created had burned showed it was night and the ocean was terrifying, no more than black matter filling the world  _ and now their cell, _ shit, they were going to drown. 

Tiredness almost forgotten, Jon threw himself to his feet, forcing himself to stay upright using the ship’s shell wall. On the quick count of three, he pushed himself off and into the gates, determined to get the cell open, but fell back once coming in contact with the indeed heated bars. His hands reflexed away, bringing his body with him because of the harsh rocking of the ship, onto the floor that was more water than anything else. Along with the slight burn his un-bandaged right hand took, it found itself straight into the water, the salt pulling a scream straight from his dried throat.

He was on the floor now; only but a few away from his mattress that he knew was not a part of the flooring. Jon fisted the fabric in both hands despite what pain in gave him, and used that as a barrier between his hands and the burning iron.

The water that soaked it made the contact between the two sizzle; awakening both Jon’s senses of how cold the water actually was and the echo of screams that traveled through the flaming hole.

It wasn’t just chaos down where they were. Up deck was not much better.

Oland cursed and screamed, sounds Jon never heard so violently as he made them, as Jon fed off of his energy to use against the gate. 

It wasn't budging, though. He was about to just commit to the cooling factor of the ankle-deep cool water as the door opened and slammed.

Rather than the usual few seconds it took for a person to climb, it was one splash and runs through the water.

Bannon appeared at the wall of fire. He stood straighter and carefully. Behind him was nothing but black - the ocean’s night - lined with flames.

Jon knew his horror stood easily on his face at the sight. But Bannon let it go unbothered.

“There was a giant wave. It knocked all the lanterns and candles and torches down,” the boy hurried out - raspy with his boyish development - as he fumbled through a ring of keys.

Jon was going to screech  _ CAREFUL!  _ As Bannon thrust the correct key in the lock, but he kept his hands on the key and away from the heat. The gate flew open with another vicious rock of the boat - earning them a giant wave of water through the level, too - throwing Bannon down into the water. 

Jon caught him and pushed him out of the cell, but not before the salt came in contact with the boy. His shirt became translucent in the water as he screamed - one much too familiar to the one days before - as his fresh wounds were soaked in it. Jon through him forward, towards the ladder. 

“HEY! _ YOU’LL JUST LEAVE ME DOWN HERE?! _ ” Oland screeched from behind them. Jon threw a look at him over his shoulder; the large man, auburn hair one with the flames around him, face to match such temper, pulling at his chains. 

_ We’ll come back for you. _

It wasn’t until Jon closed the door above deck that he realized that he lied to him.

 

* * *

 

 

The deck was an absolute shit show.

Jon barely took it in, just focused on pushing Bannon forward, carefully placing his hand around the flaggings on his back, scanning the fire and waves and bodies and splintered wood to find any sort of purchase towards safety. 

At some point, as a burnt piece of wood fell from the top of the mast, Jon pushed Bannon into a particular barrel. Bannon pulled Jon aside, to the railing they wound up, to pause as he checked what was inside. 

Provisions.

The boy had found a whole barrel of apples as men burned and drowned and fell to their death around them.

Nevertheless, Jon grabbed one right away. Eating any part he could in the three seconds he had as Bannon shoved as many as he could into his pockets. 

Jon threw the core overboard, savoring the feeling of anything falling into his stomach. He glanced over Bannon’s head at what was happening beyond them.

Most men were running wild.  Some caught in netting or under fallen masts. A horrific sight.

Jon took the sight in once more before following where he threw his eaten apple. In the sea below, there were multiple planks of wood that scattered the black waters. 

He turned to Bannon. The boy had taken a few bites out of an apple as well. He slowed his chewing as he looked at Jon.

“Can you swim, Bannon?” Jon asked. He barely could, but with the help of something to lean on…and the knowledge of knowing they were almost at the destination - he was sure this circumstance would let him pull through.

Bannon nodded. “One of the one of th’ crew.”

“Good,” Jon said, facing the water now. He climbed onto the railing. “On the count of three, we just, and then swim to the first float you see.”

Bannon tossed his apple out. It made a small splash among the many...the color of water itself like ink. Jon wished he could have checked the real color when he was out in sunlight. Maybe it would have been a bit less intimidating. 

Bannon adjusted himself on the railing. “Three,” he said, plunging into the darkness. 

Jon followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo jons going places lol. one of those places is definitely an identity crisis.
> 
> I promise we meet Dany soon. I'm planning next chapter. (which we will probably have after the first episode of s8. thats crazy ah!)
> 
> I also hope you guys like some of these OC's! I honestly didn't delve into all of them at all because i know thats not what were here for. but don't say goodbye yet!
> 
> Wanted to also note; the fight scenes in this chapter are not that descriptive because Jon isn't in the right state of mind. It's vague to read because it's vague in his perspective. Detail will be developed further in later scenes and chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> I also have a modern AU planned for them, so I might have that out before this next chapter, but spring break is next week so ill get a lot done. 
> 
> well, anyway, please review:)

**Author's Note:**

> so my first multichapter begins. I was going to finish the whole thing before releasing but wanted to post before the new season airs. I also wanted to see how yall would like this...this chapter is pretty eh to read, i get it. but its an important part to Jon's character development(or literal break down) before he meets Dany. As if this fandom doesn't get enough angst.
> 
> The chapters will be long as so there wont be many chapters. were also probably not meeting Dany until chapter 3, where we will also see her perspective. but just imagine shes doing things in Meereen i guess haha.


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